


The Beavercide

by PegLegPI



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26862229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PegLegPI/pseuds/PegLegPI
Summary: At first, you try to pretend like nothing has changed. You throw your annual back to school bash and you lug around your party pig and everything is gravy. Until you realize that a few losers are trying to break into Beaver’s room. You freak out and suddenly nobody wants to hang out with you anymore.
Relationships: Dick Casablancas/Cindy "Mac" Mackenzie
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2006 and posted it on a veronica mars fan fiction Live Journal under the name blondiekins, so I suppose that this is a repost. I just wanted it to live on somewhere else, since no one really uses Live Journal anymore.

At first you try to pretend like nothing has changed. You entertained brief thoughts of not throwing your annual back to school bash, but you're pretending that things are okay so you do it anyway. You soak your house in booze and invite a million people you don't really know or care about and lug your party pig around and everything is gravy. Until you realize that a few losers are trying to break into Beaver's room. You freak and suddenly invites to parties stop coming. Nobody wants to hang out with you anymore. Your brother was a murderous raping psycho killer and you're just another Dick in Neptune.

So you resign yourself. The Beavercide, as you've taken to calling it these days, left you with a lot of free time on your hands. You used to have hobbies. Things that you loved. Simple things like surfing and getting drunk. Eating pizza until you felt like puking and playing Xbox until your eyes hurt. And stacked blondes. God, how you loved those. But surfing holds no interest for you anymore and all the stacked blondes in Neptune seem to avoid Casa de Killer like the plague. And so you resign yourself.

You feel guilty all the time, even though you know there’s nothing you could have done to protect Cassidy. You were just a kid. How could you have known? Still, you can’t shake the feeling that there was something that you could have done. Something you did to make him like that. Hell, maybe you’re just as responsible as Woody Goodman was? You should have been nicer or protected him? You feel like you should have noticed, because he was your brother and something was obviously very wrong. But you didn’t notice. You missed the signs, even if you didn’t know what they were at the time. You couldn’t see past your self and your own immediate life and when Cassidy started acting weird and your father started looking right through him instead of at him, you just followed his lead. You hate yourself for that. You hate yourself for having been your father’s puppet.

You have a lot of time to think about things now. Because eventually, the booze runs out and the pizza gets cold and your eyes burn too much from not blinking during your marathon video game sessions. So you think about Woody Goodman and all of the ways you could kill that bastard if he wasn’t already dead. You decide that you wouldn’t have blown him up like Cassidy did. Instead you settle on something more painful. Something that could be seen and anticipated. Something long and drawn out that would leave Woody crying and begging like the bitch he was. No, you definitely wouldn’t have blown him up into little pedophile pieces floating in the Neptune sky. That was painless. It was over and done with and Woody never even knew what happened. There was no suffering and you figure, if someone made you suffer for years, well you would return that favor. But then, that was Cassidy. Sometimes you think you were the only person that really knew him, even if you didn't really know him at all. You wish you had appreciated him better. Treated him better.

But if you spend most of your time thinking about how to kill someone who is already dead, you spend even more of it thinking about Ghostworld. Cindy. Mac. Whatever her name is. Aside from you, she might be the only other person that really knew Cassidy. And you’re kind of grateful for that because you think, it would be a shame if you were the only one. You think about her so much, and it drives you crazy. You think about her weird clothes and her weird hair. Her stupid face and her stupid eyes that burn with accusation–even if it is only in a dream. You can’t stand that dream; her accusation. In every dream, she stares at you like there was something you didn’t do for him. Something you could have done. Maybe there is? Maybe you could have been a better brother?

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

Maybe that’s why, when you finally leave the house and head to the beach, you stick up for a little boy that’s being picked on. Some blonde haired, snotnosed kid that’s being pushed on his ass. Maybe those are your latent protective-brother-skills coming to the surface? Maybe you’re trying to ease your guilty conscience and that accusation from Ghostworld’s eyes? You hate yourself even as you pull the larger kid off snot-nose kid, because years ago you’d been beating up your brother on this very beach.

“Get lost, punk.” You roughly shove the larger kid away from snot-nose kid and for a moment, he looks ready to fight back. You make a fist and act as though you’re going to strike him and he runs off, his tail between his legs and his punk friends hot on his heels and you almost feel vindicated because snot-nose kid looks more like your brother than Cassidy ever did.

“What’s your name, little dude?” You ask him, shoving your hands in your pockets and glancing down at snot-nose kid as he stares up at you like you’re the coolest person in the world. You feel a pang somewhere in the middle of your chest, but you refuse to acknowledge the fact that Cassidy used to look at you this way when you weren’t picking on him or beating him up. Which, if you were being honest, was few and far between.

“Ryan.” He sounds so fragile and small when he answers you and you want nothing more than to protect this kid for the rest of your life. You introduce yourself as Dick and shake his hand when he offers it. But beyond that, you aren’t sure what to do with him now that you’ve saved him.

So you muss his hair and shrug your shoulders. “Alright. Well, stay cool little dude.”

A few steps later you get the eerie feeling that someone is following you and when you glance back, Ryan is trailing a few paces behind. You get another pang in your chest because Cassidy used to do that too.

“Wanna learn to surf?” You call out over your shoulder.

The kid agrees and you walk toward the other end of the beach with him, where all the surfers hang out. You’re weary, so you stay just on the edge, where the normal beach goers are and the friends you used to surf with set up camp.

“We’re just gonna watch today.” You tell him, noting the disappointed look on Ryan’s face. “Look, dude you can’t just jump into surfing. It’s like, an art. There are steps, man. And the last step is actual surfing in actual water.”

Ryan nods his head as though he understands and you wonder if he really does. “What are the steps?” He asks curiously as he settles into the sand next to you.

“You know, there’s like watching first.” You make a gesture toward the ocean in front of the two of you as you cut the kid a sideways glance. “You gotta watch something before you can learn it. You gotta watch how a surfer moves and how he handles his board, dude. You know? You have to get an understanding of it.”

“Right.” Ryan nods his head again as he shifts to sit on his knees. You think it’s cute how he’s watching the surfers so intently. So you pick one out. You think it might be easier to focus on just one, instead of trying to watch all of them.

“That guy’s good. Watch how he does it.” You tell him as you stick your hands in your pockets and settle in to watch Casey Gant surf.

An hour later, you glance at the kid and he’s still enthralled. But you realize that it’s getting late and this kid probably has parents that worry about him. Unlike your parents who don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. “Alright, little dude. It’s time to pack it up.”

He stares up at you somewhat disappointed, “Do we have to?” He questions.

You nod. You don’t want to, but yeah you probably should call it a day. “You’re a surfer already little dude.” You tell him as you crouch down and stick out your fist. “Give me a pound.”

He looks at you as though he has absolutely no clue, so you roll your eyes at him. “Ball your fist, dude.” When Ryan does as instructed, you nod. “Okay, now bump your knuckles against mine. And that’s a pound.”

Ryan bumps his knuckles a little too hard against yours, but you smile anyway. “Good. Now take off dude. Your parents are probably freakin’ out.”

Ryan starts to run in the direction that he came from when he suddenly stops and looks back at you. “When do I get the rest of my lessons?” He asks you, cocking his head to the side.

You shrug your shoulders because you honestly don’t know. Sure, you live in Neptune and the beach is readily accessible to you, but you aren’t sure how easily a ten-year-old can get to it. “Tomorrow?”

Ryan nods his head and runs off and you find yourself smiling. And that feels odd. This is the first real smile you’ve smiled since before The Beavercide.

  
The next day, you’re up earlier than usual. You’re at the beach before ten and you park yourself in the same spot. You went out and bought a board for Ryan last night. You blame it on the booze, but you also find yourself trying to rationalize it. If you’re going to teach someone to surf, they’re going to need a board right?

You wait around for two hours and finally, he shows up. “Hi, Dick.” He greets you warmly, as though he’s known you his whole life. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” you realize that you’ve got the board in your hand so you hand it off to him. “It’s yours.”

“Really?!” Ryan’s face is all lit up and you can’t help but smile. “Wow. This is so cool! Thanks Dick!”

“Well, you needed a board dude.” You shrug your shoulders as if it were no big deal. And really, you have so much money it isn’t. Paying $375 for a customized child’s board was like buying a gumball out of the gumball machine. “A surfer has a special relationship with his board. You can’t just like, pick up any board and surf with it man. A board is like a woman. You gotta know it intimately.”

He’s looking at you strangely and you realize that he probably isn’t into girls yet. So you shrug your shoulders and say, “Okay, never mind that last part. Point is, dude, you gotta know your board. Every inch of it.”

Ryan nods and you feel like a super hero as he stares up at you, waiting for instruction. “We’re still gonna watch today, but you can get to know your board in the meantime.”

“How do I do that?” Ryan asks you seriously.

“Hold it.” You tell him, your voice just as serious. “You gotta develop a relationship with it. You can’t just stand on it. Not until it’s ready.”

He nods again and settles down in the sand next to his board. When you glance over at him throughout the lesson, you’re happy to see that he’s gently stroking its smooth, white surface. And you think this kid is going to be a surfer yet.

  
For three days, you feel depressed. You haven’t seen your little protégé due to rain and thunderstorms and it’s starting to get to you. It’s weird but you’re suddenly realizing that you need this kid. Though he probably doesn’t need you. At any rate, he’s helping you heal.

You’re so lost in this thought that you actually jump when the doorbell rings. You’re fairly confused because you hadn’t ordered takeout and you really don’t have friends anymore. Logan’s stopped coming around because he’s back with Veronica now and she can’t bear the sight of you. You always were more loyal to him than he was to you. You think maybe that’s how Cassidy felt about you as you head toward the door.

You pull open the heavy door and stand shocked for several moments. “Ghostworld?” What the hell is she doing on your front porch? And why is she holding Ryan’s surfboard?

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but stay away from my brother Dick.” She shoves the surfboard into your hands and stares at you. Her weird hair is streaked with red and her stupid eyes are full of accusation. She looks all angry-rocker-chick and you feel a pang of something you'd rather not try to identify. Something different from the pangs you get when you think about Cassidy. “No more surfing lessons. Got it?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You almost think you're dreaming this. For a split second, you almost think that this isn't real. You think about her so much it kind of makes you sick, it's only reasonable to assume that this is just another product of your warped imagination. You must have progressed to full-on hallucinations now.

You almost think you're dreaming this. For a split second, you almost think that this isn't real. You think about her so much it kind of makes you sick, it's only reasonable to assume that this is just another product of your warped imagination. You must have progressed to full-on hallucinations now. But then you blink once, twice, three times and she's still there. And that's when you realize that this isn't a dream and you aren't hallucinating and you should probably stop trying to use logic. It's never really been your thing.  
  
You don't realize that she's been waiting for you to say something until she rolls those beautiful accusing eyes at you and turns away. You blink one last time and suddenly your eyes burn as you watch her stalk across your front lawn. You get a surge of adrenaline and you want to follow her. You're desperate to follow her. Your bare feet, however, seem set on planting roots in the marble beneath them.  
  
"Fuck you, Cindy!" The words barrel forth like a freight train and you knew they were coming but you were actually pretty powerless to close your throat around them and swallow them silent. Foot-in-mouth-syndrome. You've always had that.  
  
Still, you're kind of shocked by the veracity of them. And by the halt of her stride and the frozen set of her shoulders, you'd say she is too. And then you realize what she's already aware of. This is the first time you've used that name. Her real, actual name. Not some hurtful nickname you've come up with for her. Not the name that Veronica Mars calls her, but the name that _he_ called her. The name her family probably calls her. It's the name that the people in her life that matter the most, or mattered in Cassidy's case, call her. And it's intimate and awkward when it passes through your lips.  
  
"You think I wanted it this way?!" She's a good twenty-five feet away. The distance is how you rationalize the shouting. "You think I don't kick myself every day for not being better than I was or more than I could be?! For not protecting him?! For not bothering to notice that he was suffering?! For following my dad's lead when he started ignoring him and laughing at the stupid shit I did to humiliate him?! Well, think again!"  
  
And there it is. You've just spilled your heart to a girl who hates you and any neighbor who cared enough to listen. You're frustrated with yourself, to say the least. "I'll stay away from Ryan." You want to say her name, to call her Cindy or even Mac, but you don't. "I'll stay away from your brother because we both know I royally fucked up mine!"  
  
You stalk back into your house and slam the door behind you. Fuck her. It's all you can think about as you pace the foyer like a caged animal. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and your greasy, unkempt hair kind of makes you look like a caged animal. _Fuck it._ Fuck your stupid hair and your stupid clothes and your stupid house. Fuck her and her stupid self-righteousness. _She didn't notice either._ And maybe you didn't know your brother, but you'd like to think that you knew him once. You'd like to think that he still had that playful, gentle, caring side. You'd like to think he was still sweet, even if you did call him a homo for it and even if he was capable of doing horrible things. And maybe she knew all of those sides of Cassidy and maybe knowing that would ease your mind, but you can't ask her to share that and you don't deserve to know anyway. You didn't care enough to know him in life, why should she allow you to know him in death?  
  
You're drunk for six days straight after that. You do nothing but eat and sleep and drink and throw up. You can't be bothered with playing Xbox anymore because you can't hold the controller properly and the motion on the screen makes you sick. So you lay on the couch in your smelly clothes while you scratch your greasy head as you have fleeting thoughts before drifting off that your life is circling the bottom of the bowl when a knock stirs you.  
  
Your words are too incoherent and slurred, but you think you just yelled for whoever to go away. You're about to drift off again when you feel yourself being shaken. It's a struggle to open your eyelids, they feel like they weight 100 pounds. But you open them and through your bleary vision, you can see long dark brown and purple hair and eyes that are soft and not accusing.  
  
"This is new." You tell yourself, though it comes out sounding much more like _it's you._ You attribute that to the alcohol.  
  
You've never had this dream before. She has never come to you and taken care of you before. She's always accusing you with those eyes of hers. Always telling you that you could have been better; that you should have been better. Always letting you know that you weren't good enough for him. And blaming you. Always blaming you.  
  
You hardly feel it when she touches your face. You find that kind of odd. Her accusations and her blame, her slap across the face, they always feel real. They feel more real than they could if you were awake. So the light pressure on your face doesn't seem real, but you close your eyes and lean into it anyway and your world just fades to black.  
  
You don't dream. You just sleep. For the first time since The Beavercide, you don’t dream. It is the most restful sleep you’ve had in months and every time you feel yourself pulling free from the blackness around you, you fight harder to stay there.  
  
When you finally allow yourself to be pulled from the blackness, you aren't sure how long you were there. But your muscles ache and your whole body feels like it's made of jello. When you try to swing your legs over the edge of the couch, you realize you're trapped in a hospital bed.  
  
Suddenly, you're aware of the beeping and the tubes and the gross smell, and you're pretty sure that waking up in the hospital and being unsure of how you got there might qualify as rock bottom. The last thing you're really aware of is laying on your couch and staring at your ceiling trying desperately not to think about your dead brother and his freak girlfriend and how she didn't want you to see her brother anymore and how badly that was going to suck.  
  
You shift your gaze when a throat is cleared somewhere near the door to your hospital room and there she is. With her long brown and purple hair and her accusing eyes. You have a fleeting memory of a split second when those eyes were soft, but that had to have been a dream.  
  
"You are so stupid, Dick."  
  
You nod, you aren't sure what she's talking about but you nod.  
  
"You're selfish and you're stupid." She's standing in the doorway clutching a brown army-looking jacket and you wish she would just come in, even if only a fraction. She glances away from you, as though she can't bare the sight of you, and she sighs. "There are going to be rules. Strict rules."  
  
You nod again, still unsure of the topic.  
  
"Obviously, you need supervision." She looks so disdainful that you find yourself blinking just to see if you'd imagined it. "The two of you will not be left unattended. And no drinking."  
  
You nod again and you see that accusation in her eyes fall away. She's analyzing you now, wondering if you're comprehending what she's saying and wondering if you'll break her rules--relating to, you still aren't certain.  
  
"Just surfing."  
  
It finally hits you like a ton of bricks. She is agreeing to let you see her brother. You can continue teaching him to surf. Only now, you almost don't want to. You almost think you're betraying Cassidy several times over by trying to replace him with this kid who looks more like you than he did.  
  
“Ryan and I will meet you two days a week at the beach.” She shuffles her feet. “Ten o’clock, sharp. We’ll wait no longer than ten minutes and if you don’t show, we’re gone.”  
  
You feel kind of redundant when you nod this time. At least you fully comprehend what she’s talking about now.  
  
“We’ll agree on days when you’re released. I’ll e-mail you.” She takes a step backward, toward the hallway and you’re suddenly desperate again. “One strike, Dick. That’s all you get.”  
  
She turns to leave and you sit up a little straighter, wincing as your muscles clearly protest the movement. "Mac," she doesn't turn around completely, opting instead to glance at you from over her shoulder, "thanks."  
  
She says nothing as she leaves and you aren't sure what you've just thanked her for. You realize this whole thing is bizarre. You're confused on several levels and you're starting to feel the raging headache you've got. You aren't sure why she's agreed to let you see Ryan, for one thing, when she'd been so adamant about stopping the lessons when she showed up at your house. You're confused as to why she would come to the hospital and agree to let you see him now. You almost think that she needs you as much as you need them, but you shake that thought out of your head as quickly as it entered. It seems entirely too much like wishful thinking to you.  
  
Still, you check your email religiously for three days after you’re released from the hospital and you pour all the remaining liquor in the house down the drain. You can follow rules, most of the time. And you still feel like you’re betraying Cassidy by wanting to spend time with Ryan, but you feel like you’d be betraying yourself if you didn’t. For some reason, you need this kid and you need his sister. Hell, maybe you even need their parents?  
  
At this point, you aren't really sure. But when you finally get that e-mail from Mac, you breathe that much easier and suddenly Wednesday seems like a million years away–even if it’s only two.


End file.
